


divinam ultionem

by starblessed



Category: Ready or Not (2019)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Demon Deals, F/M, Mentions of childhood abuse, Minor Character Death, Murder, definitely not smut, not your standard time loop fic amigos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: In one universe, Grace is a sacrifice.In another universe, Grace wakes up.(If there’s one thing a lifetime of bad luck has taught Grace, it’s how to make a deal. Mr. Le Bail likes his games, and now Grace has figured out how to play them.)
Relationships: Daniel Le Domas/Grace Le Domas
Comments: 14
Kudos: 274





	divinam ultionem

**Author's Note:**

> So this is... possibly the darkest thing I’ve ever written, and messed up on a lot of levels, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have fun writing it! The basic premise here: what if Grace made a deal with Mr. Le Bail, to play the game over again? This time, though... this time, she’s ready to play.
> 
> Here’s a shortlist of warnings throughout, which I really recommend looking at, just in case:  
> 1\. not super-graphic descriptions of violence, but it’s there  
> 2\. allusions to childhood abuse, both physical and emotional  
> 3\. lots of mentions of animal death, in including that of a puppy midway through the fic (I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry)  
> 4\. implied torture  
> 5\. some descriptions get a little gory, but it’s not ubiquitous
> 
> Without further ado... let’s get haunting, ghouls!

In one universe, Grace is a sacrifice.

The blade stabs clean through her breast, and she doesn’t know anything after that. She fucking _feels it,_ that’s for sure, in those agonizing seconds before the dark. She drowns in her own blood, and the last thing she sees is her husband’s wild eyes looming over her. No mercy, no remorse. Alex looks… fucking _aroused_.

That’s the end of her story

* * *

In another universe, Grace wakes up.

She’s spread out on the dining room table, hands folded over her chest as though someone posed her that way. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears. It’s the only sound in the otherwise dead silent room. There are no remnants of a satanic ritual, or a brutal struggle for life; no bodies are left on the floor. Grace pushes herself up slowly, blinking in the dull morning light, and raises a hand to her chest.

No stab wound. No blood. Her hand, the one that got blown to bits, is still whole.

“Okay,” is the first thing out of her mouth. “I’m… dead, aren’t I?”

Silence answers her.

She laughs, low and brittle in her throat, before pressing a hand to her head. “Oh my god. I’m dead. I’m actually fucking dead.”

Behind her, the hearth crackles, blazing suddenly to life. She feels it’s heat against her back, hot enough to burn, but she’s far beyond the point of feeling pain. Without even turning, Grace knows that she’s no longer alone.

Slowly, her ragged breaths even out. Her hands drop into her lap; she sits up straight. Around her, the Le Domas dining room is eerily quiet, sickeningly silent.

“Mr. Le Bail,” she says, and the fire crackles again. “I want to make a deal.”

* * *

In one universe, Grace is a sacrifice.

In another universe, Grace wakes up.

* * *

It looks so flimsy in her hands. So… innocuous. Something that small has no right to be a death sentence, yet as silence settles over the table like a lead blanket, the implications of that tiny card are clear.

“Hide-and-seek,” Grace says aloud.

Daniel wants to vomit.

No one _wanted_ to do this tonight… but it’s a lie to say they weren’t prepared. He’s been mentally steeling himself ever since the _save the dates_ were sent out, weighed down by the knowledge of what could be. It’s happened before; there was always a possibility that it could happen again. They all knew it, but that doesn’t mean any of them were really ready.

Across the table, his father looks thoughtful. His mother is clearly reimagining her plans for the next few years, a hint of regret on her face — _sorry Mom, no grandchildren from this one_ \--- but it’s not like her conscience will hold her back. Emilie’s a deer in the headlights. Charity doesn’t blink. Aunt Helene’s got bloodlust in her eyes, _big_ surprise there… and Alex. 

Alex looks well past the point of shitting his pants. The color’s drained out of his face, and his eyes have gone blank. For all his previous bravado, all the times he’d insisted during hushed arguments that there was no point telling her, it’s not going to happen… every safety net he strung up has suddenly given out under him, and Alex hits the ground hard.

Out of all of them, the one who looks most pleased with this turn of events… is Grace.

Of course she actually _likes_ hide and seek. Mr. Le Bail’s got a real sense of humor.

“Wait, are we really going to ---” In the absence of anyone else questioning it, Fitch speaks up. He laughs, but it’s discordant with the uneasy grimace on his face. “Come on. Are we really playing this?”

“Those --- those are the rules, yeah,” Alex replies, and looks to his father as though pleading. Of course, that’s a lost cause; the family patriarch just smiles, staring directly into his younger son’s eyes. When Alex’s gaze swivels to his brother, Daniel has to lower his head.

Grace sweeps out of her seat in a cascade of white lace, and her new father-in-law rounds the table towards her. “It’s your initiation, my dear,” says his father, smiling in a way that is too amiable, too… pleasant. It’s the same way you pick a goat out of it’s pen, speaking softly and stroking its neck, while holding a sharpened blade behind your back. “So… you hide, and we’ll come and find you.”

Grace has a grin on her face too. If the mood in the room is one of overt homicidal intent, she doesn’t pick up on it. “Sounds great,” she declares. “But just so you know… I play to win.”

His father looks delighted. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As the rest of the family rises, Daniel slumps back in his seat, hoping to perhaps be forgotten altogether… but Grace raises her champagne glass, gaze flashing towards him --- and he finds himself drawn up, almost against his will. 

She’d be justified in sounding confused, amused, flippant --- _anything_. She doesn’t. “To Mr. Le Bail,” Grace says, perfectly pleasant. Around the table, a ring of champagne glasses go up, catching the light.

“To Mr. Le Bail!”

As he tips his glass to his lips, Daniel spots Alex catch his bride by the elbow, and lean in to whisper something in her ear. Grace doesn’t spare him a glance --- she simply smiles, and pulls away.

The game has begun.

* * *

Daniel makes it about three feet down the hallway when an ear-splitting screech rips through the house.

For a split second, it doesn’t compute. Too soon, too quick --- the game just started. It doesn’t make _sense_. But Daniel’s heard someone die before, seen it with his own eyes. A goat makes an unmistakable squeal as it’s being slaughtered.

He takes off running.

The house is fucking big, is the thing, so by the time he reaches the source of the screams it’s already too late to do anything. He’s not the first one there; his father and Aunt Helene stand, shock-still, in front of a towering portrait of Great Grandmother Vivian. It’s always lorded over the West Hallway — nightmare fuel for a little boy creeping across the hall to the bathroom, stalked by cold, painted eyes. 

Great Grandmother isn’t watching anything tonight, however. Her face is thoroughly obscured, smeared with a mess of crimson. On either side of her head, broken glass shards have been driven into the canvas… straight through a set of wrists, leaving a body suspended against the wall. _Dead_ , obviously. Blood runs down her bare arms in rivulets, pooling on the floor; her head has killed forward, hair dark with blood. Driven straight through her chest, holding her in place as neatly as the pins at her wrist, is a massive piece of glass.

“Jesus,” Daniel blurts out, shattering the silence which has fallen over the hall in the absence of the shrill death throes. He’s not acquainted with the latest in his father’s endless string of maids, but last time he saw Clara, she definitely didn’t look like this.

Footsteps echo behind him, drawing to an abrupt halt. Emilie lets out a strangled whimper; her husband reels away to begin gagging over the banister.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He can’t help enunciating each syllable, shock settling in and turning his veins to ice. After a long moment, he feels towards the only plausible suspect. “What the _hell,_ Aunt Helene?”

 _“Me?”_ Helene looks furious — and frankly, offended — at the accusation. “I didn’t do this!”

“Well, who did? It sure as shit wasn’t Georgie!” 

“Oooooh god. Ohmygodohmygodmygod.” From the series of squeaks behind him, Daniel assumes his sister is hyperventilating.

“Dad? You had nothing to do with this?”

“Neither of us did,” Tony insists, stepping away from the pool of blood creeping across the floor. “We were together before we heard the screaming, and just — found this.”

Not his father, and not his aunt. Not Alex, obviously preoccupied at the moment; not Charity, assigned to watch him. Daniel knows his mother wouldn't kill without a good reason, and this sure as hell wasn’t _Fitch_ —

“Oh god,” Emilie suddenly says. Slicing through her own gaze of panic, her voice is sharp. “The boys.”

As a whole, the family’s gazes shift down the hall, three doors away — where Emilie and Fitch’s sons were put to bed.

Emilie makes it to the door first, and her wail sends the rest of the family running. Daniel doesn’t know what the hell he expects to find; a part of him is _relieved_ to be met by a mirror shattered in the center of the room, broken glass littering the floor, and twin empty beds.

This relief is not shared by Emilie, who immediately collapses into hysterics. Tony catches her around the shoulders before she can literally collapse, squeezing his daughter tight against him. His father’s eyes are wild, face drawn tight. For the first time, Daniel spots a hint of fear.

Huh. And they’re not even an hour into the game.

* * *

Georgie and Gabe are nowhere to be found — that’s the first thing they establish. Second, and just as concerning — neither is Grace.

“Okay,” says Daniel, nursing a finger of brandy. “So, she’s really good at hide and seek. Or she’s dead already, and we don’t have to worry anymore.”

 _“Or —“_ Aunt Helene hefts her axe on her shoulder, just a bit too enthusiastic about this turn of events. “She knows how to play the game!”

Daniel catches a scoff around a mouthful of liquor. The idea is patently absurd. Not Grace. He’s not an expert in his new sister-in-law, by any means, but he knows _enough_ — he’s seen Grace smile at Alex like she’s looking straight at the sun, watched her throw her head back in shameless laughter at a bad joke, observed her coerce her bridesmaids onto the dance floor during the wedding reception. The new Mrs. Le Domas is a lot of things, but a killer? Not the Grace he knows. Not the Grace Alex married.

Her smile flashes back into his mind, as she held that wretched card up, and suddenly he feels queasy.

Something was up with her. Something was wrong. Grace’s smile has never been... like _that_ , so calm and restrained. She’s always as quick to mock things as to laugh at them, but she didn’t bat an eye at the patent absurdity of hide and seek.

There just wasn’t enough time for the family to have gotten to the boys’ room and done that to Clara. Either the boys did it themselves, and are now holed up somewhere in the house like pint-sized psychopaths, or…

Or.

Daniel downs the rest of his glass.

Tuning back into his family’s bickering just in time to catch his mother declare, “So, we take the maid out with the goats and get on with things!”, he turns, and pours himself another glass.

* * *

Two hours in, and nobody can find Fitch. This is a minor disaster. Not because Fitch was a contender for most valued player or anything, but because it sends Emilie into a full-on spiral. She melts onto the couch in the game room, sobbing hysterically, shaking like a chihuahua at the zoo. Whatever his panoply of flaws, Daniel’s not heartless. He sits beside his sister, massaging her shoulders, while the rest of the family spreads out through the house. Alex is gone too, now — which doesn’t surprise Daniel a whit. Whether he knows about Clara’s unfortunate fate or not, his first priority was always going to be Grace. Who knows? Maybe he’ll actually get her out in one piece, before this night turns into even more of a bloodbath

“It doesn’t — make sense —“ Emilie gasps, between sobs that wrack her entire body. “This was supposed to be _easy!_ You said — you said _last time_ —“

“Last time the game lasted two hours.” Poor Charles hadn’t even understood until it was too late; he hadn’t stood a chance. When Daniel closes his eyes, he can still feel the man’s desperate hands on his shoulders, and when he squeezes them tight, it’s Grace sobbing and begging him. He forces his eyes wide open, not even daring to blink. “I don’t think this is like last time, Em.”

“My kids — oh god, what’s gonna happen to my kids?”

“Well.” If Daniel had to guess, the little demons are hiding _somewhere_. He doesn’t even consider putting forward any other theories. Why make things worse, when his sister’s already at her wit’s end? “They’ll — turn up. They’re kids, they run off all the time, it’s what they do.”

“But _murder!”_ Emilie wails, throwing both hands out empathetically. Daniel leans back against the couch, nodding. _Definitely_ murder.

It seemed like a bloodbath was in the cards tonight either way. If Grace is really the one behind this, turning the tables on them… well, he never thought she had it in her. Try as he does to summon up rage, or indignation, or even sensible fear… Daniel just can’t. Every time he tries, he sees Charles’s face, smells the fetid stench of the goat pit, and remembers those dying squeals.

If Grace has decided to play the game, maybe she can actually win.

* * *

They find the next maid in the dumbwaiter. Or what’s left of the next maid, at least. Most of her seems to be there, just… in pieces.

“Ha ha, _oooh-kay_ ,” Daniel says, and leans over the banister to vomit.

Faithful old Stevens doesn't get it so easy. The majority of his body is left in the kitchen, a bloody knife sticking out of his back. They find his head later, when it pops up on the middle of the dining room table, set on a silver platter. There goes Daniel’s theory of _the butler did it._

With each body, his parents grow progressively more frantic. A familiar mania has settled in his father’s eyes, and it warns Daniel off from getting too close; his mother, meanwhile, has gone hard and grim, movements sharp as a knife. Charity sticks close to her, mirroring the Le Domas matriarch's movements. They both have a level of ruthless practicality that suits them well in this sort of game; as the stakes keep mounting, they only become more determined not to lose.

 _Huh,_ Daniel thinks, chewing that over. Maybe there is something to that whole _Oedipus complex_ after all. Not enough liquor in the world to dull _that_ nightmare of a concept.

“The goddamn cameras!” his mother insists, crossbow rattling as she hefts it over her shoulder. “Either we use the cameras or spend the rest of the night getting picked off like sheep!”

“Sheep with guns,” Charity remarks flatly.

Of course, Aunt Helene has to be the stickler for tradition. “It’s not how it is done! He won’t approve! If we do not play the game by his rules —“

“I doubt Mr. Le Bail has a personal vendetta against home surveillance systems! He set his rules two hundred years ago. Times have _changed_.”

“If they’d had cameras back then, he _would_ have banned them!”

“How do you know that? Have you _asked_ him?”

Silently, Daniel rises from his slump on the couch and slips behind his family’s backs, out into the hall. He can only endure so much bickering and keep what little sanity he’s got left. Frustration pulses between his brows like a jackhammer; his stomach churns, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Any longer without a drink, and Stevens’ fate will start to look appealing.

The door to the study creaks open. The room is dark, shadows dispelled only by the restless light of a roaring fire. He takes two steps inside before stopping cold.

Grace — disheveled and striking in a torn wedding gown — stands in the middle of the room.

For a second, they only stare at each other. Daniel doesn’t dare move; Grace doesn’t seem inclined to. He’s the one to finally break the stalemate, sighing through his nose as he steps the rest of the way in. “I just… came for a drink.”

“I know,” says Grace, and holds a glass out to him.

Her hand doesn’t tremble. Her chest doesn’t heave. She doesn’t regard him with the wide-eyes desperation of a hunted animal. There’s blood on her lacy sleeves, Daniel notes, trailing up her arms. Crimson streaks across her abdomen, marring the pristine white silk. None of it comes from any obvious source, so he can only infer it doesn’t belong to her.

“Somehow,” he remarks, eyeing the preferred whiskey, “I’m a little wary.”

When she smiles, something icy coils in the pit of his stomach. For a second, he swears her eyes flash in the firelight, no longer blue but impossibly dark — _black_ , he thinks, before the absurdity of the thought overtakes him. Sassy Grace, naive Grace, _innocent_ Grace… now, there’s nothing innocent about the skewed curve of her lips, or the considering _hmm_ which rumbles from her breast.

She pulls back the glass, bringing it to her own mouth. Her throat bobs with a short swallow, dispelling any fears of poison, at least. When she steps towards him, something in the back of Daniel’s mind screams that he should really _run_ , but it’s too exhausted to make itself heard.

Grace’s hand finds the back of his head. Her touch is nearly tender, fingers lacing themselves in his unkept curls. “You should be,” she tells him, and raises the glass to his lips.

Fuck it. It’s whiskey, he’s probably going to be dead before dawn, and this is... _uncomfortably_ erotic. Daniel drains the glass.

Grace’s hand tightens in his hair, the cruel set of her mouth pursing with satisfaction. As she turns, setting the glass aside, Daniel studies her. “So, Grace,” he asks casually, “how’s the wedding night going?”

“Not what I expected.”

He chuckles.

“Then again…” Gradually, her grip on the back of his head loosens. Spidery fingertips creep down to caress the back of his neck, a tender pressure that leaves every nerve in Daniel’s body standing on end. In the shadows, her face is cast into stark definition. They accentuate her cheekbones, the cut of her jaw, obscuring her eyes entirely. All he can see are twin pinpricks in the darkness, glittering at him. No one else but him.

When her free hand presses against his chest, he knows he’s in trouble.

“Grace.” The word escapes as a rush of breath, barely over the pitch of desperation. Her touch trails down, over his stomach and towards the zip of his pants. He is hyperaware of her every movement, so dangerously close to him. “What — what are you doing?”

She pauses, going completely still. “You don’t want to?”

“N- no.” Lies have always tasted bitter on his tongue, but Daniel’s accustomed himself to the taste by now. This one is like biting into a lemon laced with cyanide. Jesus, when did _that_ happen? When did he allow it to happen? Suddenly, a cold hand of desperation locks around his chest and squeezes tight. Good brothers do not want to touch their new sisters-in-law… especially when said sister-in-law might be picking off members of the household one by one. His hands fumble at Grace’s shoulders, but they are heavy and clumsy; his distracted mind cannot decide whether he wants to push Grace away or just hold her still, so he manages neither. Where his body can’t react, his mouth struggles to compensate. “Look — Alex got out, okay? He’s gone to look for you. Just the two of you, you can get out before dawn…” Grace and Alex, fleeing this hellhole together. The way it’s supposed to be. If that’s a death sentence for everyone else involved, then… well, at least their deaths will be worth something. “We get the doors unlocked, then you two can get away from here —“

“I found Alex,” Grace cuts in. Something about her tone — the utter lifelessness of it — sends fear spiking through Daniel’s gut.

His mind races with memories: Grace leaning against Alex’s shoulder for balance after one two many margaritas, Grace pressing a surprise kiss to his cheek, Grace idly playing with his hand in her lap over lunch. Alex looking at her with tenderness, too much adoration in his eyes for Daniel to even resent him. They’re… every ounce of affection he’s never had with his own wife, everything life has taught them shouldn’t come so easily. Grace and Alex, whatever their problems, are good.

At least, they _have_ been, up til tonight.

Alex would never hurt Grace — of that, there’s no doubt in Daniel’s mind — and Grace wouldn’t hurt Alex.

Right?

“Where — where is Alex?” he can't help asking.

Grace doesn’t blink. Her hand finds Daniel’s chest once again, and presses against his pounding heart. “He’s fine. Waiting for you.” For a moment, neither of them dare move. Grace observes, eyes impossibly big and impossibly blue, blinking at him from the shadows. He can barely see her, but she sees every inch of him. “What’s the matter, Daniel?”

 _So many fucking things_ — but he doesn’t get the chance to say this before Grace’s hand has found his pants again, and pulls his fly down.

“It’s not right.” His voice trembles. “You're his wife.”

“Not for long.”

“Understandable.” Of all the valid reasons for a divorce, _satanic death cult in-laws_ makes the top of the list. A hand lands against Grace’s shoulder, but instead of pushing her off, he latches on for balance. He stumbles back one step, two, until his back hits the pool table. She moves with him, their shadows weaving and intertwining against the wall behind her. Daniel’s eyes lock on their dance, and flutter. “Grace, we can't — we can’t do this.” If he really wanted to push her away, he could. He should. He isn’t. Why the _fuck_ isn’t he? “Alex is my brother. I’ll never do anything to hurt him.”

Her lips curl back, baring pearly, jagged teeth in the firelight. “Do you think this would hurt him? Really? Do you think it will break him if I die?” Her head tilts slowly. “Do you think he wouldn’t do it himself?”

“What are you —“ God, it’s too much, everything is too much. The idea of Alex no better than the rest of their family, Grace’s hand caressing his collar, her hot breath… “What are you saying?“

 _“Daniel…”_ exhales in his ear, voice light and melodic. She doesn’t sound like Grace. A wave rolls over him anyway, pleasure and confusion sweeping him up and carrying him away. His hands lock around Grace’s waist, gripping her desperately. She arches against him, head dipping back to expose the long arch of her neck. It ought to make her vulnerable — if he wanted, he could lunge forward, dig his teeth in and leave tender marks against the flesh — but she is anything but. The tables have indeed turned, and… it should be terrifying.

Daniel is too far gone to be afraid.

She pulls open his pants, hands working with the precise skill of an artist. He shudders against her, forced to brace himself against the pool table. It’s the only thing holding him up when she takes him in her hands, and his knees go weak.

There are a thousand reasons he should push her away.

Damn him, he doesn’t.

“Grace — _Grace_ , oh god —“

His head falls back, eyes rolling with it. Fire rips through him as Grace’s mouth trails up his neck, nipping at the tender spot behind his jaw. Hot breath caresses the shell of his ear. “God isn’t here.”

Probably for the best. There are some things the poor bastard doesn’t need to see.

* * *

“You’re pathetic,” Charity declares, when she walks into the study moments later. Daniel is sprawled out in the same chair, bottle of whiskey at his lips. His hair is mussed; his fly might still be unzipped, Jesus Christ.

“Indeed,” he replies, and feels it.

It’s not like he’s crossed a line here. There’s never been an illusion of fidelity in their marriage. Not after his wedding night, when Daniel passed out drunk on the couch during a game of chess — only to wake up hours later and stumble to his rooms, where he found his new wife riding one of her bridesmaids.

“Since you weren’t going to do it,” Charity said --- which set the tone for their entire relationship, really.

Charity’s had her lovers and Daniel’s visited a few strip clubs, but there’s a _difference_ there. A lapdance while you’re two drunk to see straight comes with a convenient no-strings-attached price tag; and Charity’s never been capable of caring about anyone more than herself. Definitely not in the way that would make a husband jealous… though Daniel isn’t sure he ever loved Charity that way either. Maybe he did, and it’s been so long he’s just forgotten. Maybe she was a convenient way to get a hit in on his parents’ pride, and not have to come home to an empty house at night. They both use each other, and they’re both faintly disgusted by each other. What could ruin a marriage so well-matched?

Fucking your brother’s wife, maybe.

It’s like… Daniel can’t even _think_ of a comparison, because the thought of Charity’s hands on Alex, his little brother’s mouth on her throat and his hands on her back, makes him want to vomit. That level of betrayal is the only thing he couldn’t ignore.

And even if _her_ affairs are always emotionless, meaningless… whatever the hell just happened between he and Grace was definitely not no-strings-attached.

Instead of meeting his wife’s eyes, Daniel takes a long sip, straight from the bottle. Screw dignity.

“You’d better get off your ass,” Charity says, after a heavy moment of silence. “They just found the last maid. In the meat grinder.” 

Daniel chokes, but manages to swallow his mouthful of liquor. 

“Your parents are looking for you.”

“Let them look.” His nose crinkles. The glaring flames are beginning to make his eyes ache. “Besides, we’re not the ones hiding. We’re the _seekers_ , remember?”

Charity shifts behind him, adjusting her shotgun. Daniel is almost certain he’s not supposed to catch the murmur under her breath, when she says, “Not so sure about that.”

Some acquired instinct makes him sit up straighter, unease pooling in the hollow of his chest. When he turns, finally, to face his wife, Charity’s glowering into the fire.

“Your aunt is missing,” is all she says.

He can’t help laughing.

* * *

Aunt Helene’s big argument was “no cameras”. This was the hill she was willing to die on — and the one she apparently disappeared on, mid-argument, when her brother and his wife glanced away for a moment. One second, she was there; the next, Aunt Helene was gone.

The first thing they do in her absence is turn on the damned cameras.

“I don’t want to play anymore!” Emilie protests, lashing out when her remaining family tries to coax her off the couch. Reeling from a kick to the chest, Daniel’s _glad_ to be assigned the mission. “You two get to the cameras, for God’s sake,” his mother declares, waving them off. “I’ll deal with —“ She gestures colorfully with her crossbow. “This.”

Alone time with his father has never been something he’d choose. Tonight, at least, Tony has more on his mind than what a screw up his eldest son is. They make their way through the halls in relative silence, one hand on their weapons, ears hyper-tuned to any sound. Daniel keeps an eye on the corners as they make their way through the dark halls, half-expecting to see a telltale gleam of red light. The cameras on means Alex has beaten them there. It means Alex is still working for, maybe _with_ Grace. It means he’s okay.

The cameras stay dark.

“Jesus Christ,” his father says, when they find the control room dark, it’s door shut tight. “Don’t tell me there’s a key.”

“You don’t _know?”_ Daniel exclaims. “You live here.”

“Yes, but Stevens always managed the security systems. I haven’t been down here in years.” His father tries the doorknob, and hisses as it locks up. “Damn it! Just what we need!”

“However persuasive your shouting is, somehow I _don’t_ think it’s gonna do the job.” 

He brought it on himself, really. All night long, his father has been stretched and stretched, like a rubber band on the verge of snapping; it takes a lot less to set Tony Le Domas’s temper off. His father reels on him, face twisted into a familiar mask of fury, and Daniel’s body locks up for the inevitable blow. His father gets as far as grabbing his collar —

When the door clicks.

They turn together, and watch as the heavy metal door creaks open — slowly, slowly, as if someone hidden just inside is pushing it. Beyond the doorway, the control room itself is dark, it’s machines inactive. A few red lights blink in sporadic flashes, illuminating long shadows along the walls. There’s not enough time to make them out; they could be anything. Maybe it’s just Daniel’s imagination, how they churn and writhe, like animals starving and straining for their next meal.

If Tony feels the same rush of dread, he doesn’t listen to it. Old Dad’s never prized common sense over convenience, after all. The hand against Daniel’s neck grows slack. “Thank fuck,” Tony mutters, and charges into the room.

“Wait, _don’t_ —“ Daniel starts.

His father doesn’t listen. It’s too late, anyway.

He makes it through the door, and at once the shadows begin to swell. Like a boil inflating with pus and blood, they billow out around the room, encompassing everything. The red lights are swallowed up, any hint of light from the hallway is drawn in and consumed…

And in the gaping maw the room has suddenly become, his father hangs suspended.

A strangled gasp forces itself from Tony’s throat. His feet kick blindly at the air, searching for purchase where there is none. Desperate hands claw at his throat, finding no noose, no choking grip… but he’s being strangled all the same, and pulled deeper into the dark. The shadows pulse around him like a beating heart. Something hisses; something else growls, low and hungry. 

His back against the wall, Daniel slides down until he hits the floor. Only then does he realize how much he’s trembling. His hands quake against his knees; his entire body is wracked with tremors, even as he draws in on himself. The heart in his throat keeps pushing its way up, teasing his gag reflex until he’s certain he will vomit.

Tendrils of shadow creep up Tony’s legs, as if they’re caressing them. His dad whimpers, high and helpless. Slowly, like a bonfire pig on a stick, he turns… turns to face his helpless son. Tony’s face has swelling from white to purple, a zit ready to pop; his eyes, bulging and bloodshot, plead with Daniel for mercy.

“God…” It’s all he can wheeze, past a throat locked up in horror. Somewhere in the back of Daniel’s mind, Grace’s raspy voice echoes: _God isn't here._

Grace. That’s _it_ , that’s — Jesus, fuck. _Grace_. He seizes on her like a lifeline, a guiding light in the middle of the storm. Whatever the hell is happening, not a doubt lingers in Daniel’s mind. It’s because of Grace.

“Please!” he shouts into the abyss. “You don’t have to do this!”

His father’s veins strain against his temples, eyes ballooning with blood.

Daniel’s hands dig into the hall’s wooden floor, throat hoarse when he hollers, “Grace!”

For a second, nothing happens. Then, a shift in the shadows. Over his father’s shoulder, the darkness gives way to something else… a pale figure in a blood-stained wedding dress.

Daniel locks on her, and it’s a testament to how fucked up this situation is that he’s genuinely relieved. “Please,” he says, slumping forward on his hands and knees. “Grace, listen to me, you don’t — don’t do this, Grace. Please.”

“You love him.” It isn’t a question.

“I —“ He pauses to bite his tongue, nerves reverberating with the words. How many times has he denied it? How many times has Daniel seen the reflection of disappointment in his father’s eyes, of loathing, and told himself it didn’t matter? How many times has he swallowed back a rush of bitterness at his self-absorbed family and their twisted rituals, and wondered if the world would not be better off without them all?

He doesn’t fool himself enough to imagine anyone in his family _likes_ him. No one, probably, besides Alex and maybe their mother. He doesn’t like any of them either. Yet they’re still his _family_. In spite of every ounce of liquor-soaked loathing, Daniel will always love them.

“Yes.” His fingers dig into the wooden floorboards, chest heaving. “Yes, I do. Please don’t do this.”

Grace is silent for a long moment, stepping forward until she stands at Tony’s side. Silhouetted against each other, they make a jarring contrast — Grace, hollow-eyed and serene, beside a dying man.

“He doesn’t love you,” she finally says. The words fall like stones upon Daniel’s head, but he can’t deny them. “You’re a disappointment. He’s thought so ever since you were a child — when you used to watch the goats in their pens, and smile at them. You cried once when they sacrificed your favorite. He called you pathetic.”

Daniel’s ears ring, his head spinning. There’s no way she can know all of this, she can’t…

“You got a puppy for Christmas when you were six. It was Helene’s idea — before she got married herself. She thought it would be good for you to have something to care for, something to love.” Grace’s lips purse in a mockery of her warm smile, clawing inside Daniel’s chest. “You loved it to death, didn’t you? Up until the next sacrifice, when you had to cut its throat. Your hands were shaking too much, and you were crying…” Slowly, she turns her head, gazing serenely up at Tony. “What did your father do then?”

The memories have never been clearer, the sensations more visceral — as though every second is being injected back into his head, forcing him to relieve them. How his puppy squirmed against his chest, the rhythm of its thrumming heart… the circle of robed family members surrounding him, shadowed, waiting… tears hot against his cheeks, even as his father charged forward, seizing Daniel’s hands and moving them without his consent. And the _blood…_ there was so much blood. It burned him.

“That’s all you are to him,” Grace says softly. “A little boy, too scared to do what must be done. Careless. Useless. Not a son worth having.”

Something in Daniel’s chest snaps, shattering to pieces. They rain around him as he slumps forward, head presses against the cool hardwood floors. Each breath comes ragged, tearing itself from his chest. Maybe he’s crying — he’s beyond the point of knowing.

“Daniel,” Grace says.

He’s just enough in control to hear himself say, “Do it.”

A crack. A thud. His father’s body hits the floor hard.

Silence hangs in the air around them, as tangible as the darkness itself. It takes Daniel too long to compose himself. By the time he finally manages to lift his head, he’s still shaking; his eyes ache, his throat burns. Hot tears sting his cheeks, leaving their marks like gouges against sensitive flesh.

His father’s body lies there in the doorway for a few seconds longer before crumbling and blowing away. Ash on an invisible wind, vanishing into the darkness… and just like that, Tony Le Domas is gone.

“Fuck,” Daniel forces out, teeth grinding as though determined to break.

Grace steps forward at last, emerging from the shadows untouched. Behind her, they dissipate, drawn back like smoke into pursed lips. All the darkness drains into her, into her shoulderblades and back; the force of it seems like it should knock her down, but Grace doesn’t waver. Finally, it is all gone, and she’s left standing alone.

Her sneakers feet are silent against the floor. She steps directly into his line of sight, before kneeling down. Her hand finds his cheek, brushing away tears.

There’s no way to explain it, really. The rush of feeling sweeps over him contrary to every logic, every emotion that he should be feeling… but when Grace touches him, Daniel feels nothing but peace. It’s as though she’s leeching the darkness from inside of him, as easily as draining the shadows without. His eyes flutter shut, and he cannot help but lean into her hand, chasing the high of this unexpected bliss.

“It will be alright, Daniel,” Grace says, and he believes her wholeheartedly.

Everything is going to be just fine.

* * *

Emilie is a mercy. She’s already torn to pieces over her missing family, strung out to the point of hysteria. It’s easy for Daniel to press a few Xanax into her hands, urging her to “rest — we’ll take care of everything.”

He stays with his baby sister as she winds down, finally slumping against the couch in a half-doze. When Grace comes, it’s peaceful. He’s not sure Emilie even feels it.

Charity is alone in the hall outside of the dining room when Daniel finds her. She’s coiffing her hair in the mirror, though her shoulders tense as he sidles up behind her — not ignorant of his presence, simply uncaring. He lingers over her shoulder for a moment, as her reflection’s gaze catches his eyes. She arches an eyebrow, in that effortless, aloof way she’s always had; a long time ago, Daniel remembers falling for it.

His hands find her bare shoulders, running down her arms. When she turns to face him, a question is plain in her eyes… but Daniel doesn’t give her long enough to voice it before kissing her.

At first, she resists. It takes a long moment of working at Charity’s lips, his hands massaging up and down her hips, to get her to reciprocate. As soon as she kisses back, nipping hard at his bottom lip, Daniel presses her back. Back, back, until she’s pressed against the floor-length hallway mirror.

With one last caress, he breaks away, stepping off to the side. Charity is left silhouetted in a gilded gold frame, eyes wide as Grace descends.

Daniel feels a twinge in his chest when she goes, but nothing more.

His mother is the greatest challenge. Becky Le Domas has never gone down without a fight. Even now, with the rest of her family missing and the house silent around her, it’s no different. She creeps through the halls in her towering heels, steady even as the shadows whisper around her and black figures writhe in the corners of her vision.

When she turns the last corner, Daniel is standing at the end of the hall. Over his shoulder, Grace flanks him.

For a long moment, his mother just takes in the scene. She doesn’t look surprised. The corners of her eyes pinch up, mouth going tight, like she’s about to cry… but his mother has never been one to shed tears, either.“Oh, Daniel,” she just says, voice heavy with disappointment.

“Sorry, Mom,” he replies, as Grace takes a step forward.

Becky’s crossbow is still raised. She fires one bolt at Grace, then another, without missing a beat. Both pass clean through her chest, and don’t come out the other side. Darkness begins to writhe around Grace’s sneakered feet, like tendrils of thick oil. It hisses and snaps, starving for fresh blood; the floor is left singed in its wake.

Becky’s eyes glance over the darkness without a lick of fear, before returning to her son. Her tongue clicks, jaw tensing. “You can’t get behind satanic worship when it’s your own family doing it, but as soon as it’s a pretty girl — oh, it’s suddenly cool?” Her teeth flash, pearly white and mocking. “I thought you were a better man, Daniel.”

“Sorry,” is all Daniel says, again. The darkness swells. This time, he has to look away.

* * *

When dawn breaks over the horizon, the house is silent. 

There’s no divine retribution, no sudden inferno or agonizing demise — nothing that Daniel was raised to expect, from the moment he could understand what a _blood sacrifice_ meant. For a few moments, he simply stares out the window, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. His entire childhood — his entire life, his family’s lives — boiled down to nothing but fear. Maybe they had a good reason to be afraid… but maybe it was all just for nothing after all.

“So,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on the brightening sky rather than glance back at Grace. The hearth is blazing, sending up the occasional crackle; his voice echoes through the empty dining room. “Was it really all bullshit?”

“The deal?” Her voice is hollow, thoroughly un-Gracelike. He expected nothing else. “No. It was real.”

Well, isn’t that something. “And let me guess?” he says with a scoff. “Somewhere down the line, we managed to fuck it up, and you’re our punishment.”

“No,” Grace replies. “I was your sacrifice.”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, Damocles’s sword over their heads. Slowly, Daniel turns to face her. Though his mouth forms the question, it stops in his throat, unwilling to be voiced. 

“They killed me. All of them. Everyone had their part. They all had their turn, all drew blood in their own ways.”

As she speaks, new wounds split open, crimson roses blooming across her dress and spreading out until they stain most of her body. A gaping hole in her hand, dripping with blood; twin tear marks across her back, like an angel’s wings forcibly yanked out; a bloodied face; a gash across her shoulder.

Most prominently… a wound splits open on her breast, exactly the size of a ceremonial dagger. Just beyond it, Daniel can see her heart, pulsing and thrumming like a frightened bird.

“I died,” Grace says softly, her voice hoarse, “and that was it. But Mr. Le Bail likes his bargains.”

Slowly, the reality settles upon his shoulders. It’s worse than anything Daniel could have imagined. The Grace who laughed openly, who caressed Alex’s face with raw affection and beamed in her wedding photos… that girl sold her soul to become something monstrous. She's gone, killed by his fucked up family, and nothing but shadows remain in her place.

“God,” he breathes, voice breaking on the word. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be. You were the only one that tried, Daniel. You tried to save me.”

“I — no. No, no.” That doesn’t make sense. _Alex…_ the whole point of feeling guilty was for Alex’s sake. Everything — well, up to the point where Daniel fucked his wife — was the result of shame and grief, for his brother’s happy ending and the life of his innocent bride.

Alex is the best of them all. Alex deserves to get away with his soul intact.

Grace… _found him._ That’s what she said earlier.

All this time, he’d hoped Alex was waiting just around the corner. With the car, maybe, or keys, or undiluted relief on his face… anything. Even as their family members were swallowed up, one by one, Daniel never really considered that his little brother might be gone already.

“Alex is the good one,” he says hoarsely. Though his hands are shaking again, Daniel can’t bring himself to care. “He… he loves you, Grace. He doesn’t want any part of this, he’s not fucked up like the rest of us, you can still leave with him —“ He breaks off, breathing heavily. “It’s not too late.”

Something beyond Grace’s being rumbles. The air around her seems to shift.

“No,” she says. “It really is.”

Alex shoots out of the nether as though he’s been spat out, regurgitated by an eldritch horror who ate a bad burrito. He lands in the middle of the dining room floor, on his hands and knees. For a second, Daniel hardly recognizes his brother. Alex is trembling to the point of convulsion, windswept and battered. Open wounds line his face and neck, streaking blood into the collar of his dress shirt. He wears the blood like a cloak, though it cannot conceal the shell-shock on his face.

He looks like he’s been through hell.

“Alex! Jesus —“ Daniel drops to his knees, scrambling to his brother’s side. As soon as his hand finds heaving shoulderblades, Alex throws himself against him. His face presses into Daniel’s chest, streaking blood against his pristine shirt. He clings to his elder brother like a lifeline. Daniel clings back, rocking him gently, and shushing him like he used to when they were kids.

For the first time, he looks up at Grace with rage in his eyes. Not a smoldering regret, but full, burning fury. “What the _fuck_ ,” he snarls, drawing up and around his brother like a shield. “The fuck is this? You — he hasn’t killed anybody, he hasn’t done anything! He’s not a part of this! He’s your fucking husband!”

**_“I was his fucking wife!”_ **

It’s Grace’s words, but not Grace’s voice. Hell reverberates behind each word, a multilayered snarl that shatters every piece of glass in the room. As a shower of shards rain down upon their heads, Daniel presses Alex’s face against his chest, covering him.

“He lured me here. He didn’t tell me. He wanted me for himself.” The guttural tirade breaks off in a cacophony of heavy breaths. When she speaks again, Grace’s voice breaks through, like a shout rising above a storm. “He killed me!”

It takes a minute for her words to sink in. At first, Daniel thinks she’s speaking metaphorically — and yeah, what Alex did was monumentally shitty, and yeah, they had multiple arguments about it leading up to the big day — but then he notices the blood on Alex’s hands.

They’re coated with the stuff, like he dipped his hands into a split-open chest cavity and dig around. It drops from his fingers to the wooden floors, leaving deep crimson handprints against Daniel’s back where he grips him. Slowly, Daniel goes tense in his brother’s embrace. When Alex whimpers, another tremble rolling through him, Daniel catches his brother by the shoulders and eases him back.

“Alex,” he says, forcing him to meet his eyes. “What did you do? Hey, look at me — what did you do?”

Alex says nothing. He doesn’t look at Daniel at all. His eyes are trained over his brother’s shoulder, at Grace. All he can do is mouth a desperate litany: “I love you, honey. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

In his face, Daniel finds every answer.

When Alex slit the throat of his first goat, he recalls, he didn’t even shudder.

With a deep inhale, Daniel pushes his brother away, scrambling to his feet like a drunken man. Alex makes a noise of utter devastation, reaching out for him again — but his gaze is still fixed on Grace, so he doesn’t see how Daniel backs away.

“I thought —“ Daniel says, and swallows the words. He can see it too easily now: Alex, with the knife raised, plunging it into Grace’s heaving chest.

They all sinned in their own way; they all deserved the hand the devil dealt them. Fitch was stupid; Emilie was spoiled; his father greedy, his mother prideful; Aunt Helene, fanatical; Charity, heartless. But Alex… of all his family, Alex was supposed to be the only one worth saving.

Grace takes a step forward. No writhing shadows carry her now; her sneakered feet crunch over broken glass. In the middle of the floor, Alex huddles in on himself, trembling. He’s still beginning, an incoherent stream of love professions and desperation, but Grace has long stopped listening. She extends a hand, the shadows building and swelling behind her.

Without warning, her gaze swivels to Daniel’s. 

He takes another breath, and nods.

No looking away. No hiding. Daniel watches, ashen-faced, as his only brother is devoured.

In the aftermath of it all, Grace turns to him. Her eyes are pitch black, inky veins spiderwebbing up along her neck. The darkness billows around her like a cloud of poisonous gas, swallowing up every ounce of light in the room. Suddenly there is no more dawn, no new day.

Daniel spreads his hands and waits for the end.

Instead, Grace’s lips curl back, revealing a gruesome smile. Her teeth are cracked and broken, jagged shards of glass in her mouth. Liquid drips like raw oil between them.

“I told you, Daniel. You saved me.”

She takes one step forward, then another. Her darkness spreads out like an angel’s black wings, enveloping him entirely. Daniel feels the sting of it against his skin, the oppressive weight against his chest. He forces a breath, dragging it into his lungs.

Grace’s arms loop around his neck as his vision begins to go dark around the edges. He is conscious of her close, too close, and of himself falling into a void of which there is no end. 

“I’m going to save you,” are the words which carry him into emptiness.

* * *

The mansion burns that night. Every inch of it is razed to the ground, in a way a simple overturned lantern should not allow. Acres and acres of land, millions of dollars of treasure within… all reduced to ash in a matter of hours, they don’t find any bodies, of course.

The new Grace Le Domas tragically perished on her wedding night, alongside her husband and all his family. No survivors stumbled from the flames to tell the tale.

“So,” says Daniel, voice flat and rough, as though his throat has been scraped raw by sandpaper. Before, his eyes were a warm brown; now, they are pitch black. He does not flinch, even as the inferno crackles and licks at the toes of his shoes. “ _Fun_ as that was… where are we headed next?”

Grace considers for a moment, extending her hand to caress the still-raging inferno of the Le Domas estate. The flames welcome her fingers without blistering; shadows creep along her outstretched arm like writhing snakes, mixing with the white lace of her wedding gown.

“We planned our honeymoon in Vegas,” she says at last.

Daniel feels himself smile. Inside, he has been carved up and hollowed out; the words ring within him, registering against nothing.

Finally, his soul is quiet. It’s something strange, utterly foreign to him — _peace_.

“I can’t think of anywhere better.”

If this is hell, he never wants to leave.


End file.
